Trial by Fire

by David W Robinson

  “No way. I’m not saying nowt of the kind. Joe was driving that car.”

  “But it could have been Lee. You said so.”

  “No. I said if it wasn’t Joe then it had to be Lee. He’s the only other bloke who would be driving Joe’s car. And if it was Lee, then he was doing it cos Joe told him to.”

  Denise did not believe him, but she was getting nowhere, so once more, she altered her approach slightly. “Right, Todd, here’s what I want.” She dipped into her bag and came out with a memory stick. “A copy of the relevant footage, from just before the time Joe’s car arrived until it left again.”

  “Never in a million years. No way. Can’t do it. Cops said I can’t and my gaffer will go with what they say. If they find out, I’m done for.”

  “How long do you think you’ll get when they learn you’re suppressing evidence in a murder case?”

  His colour drained, his eyes widened.

  “You see, Todd, when I’m through here, if I don’t get what I’m looking for, I go to Joe’s lawyers, and they will come in like the Parachute Regiment.”

  “But the cops—”

  “Are irrelevant. Before any trial, they must declare all their evidence to the defence team, and when it proves Joe innocent, everyone gets it in the neck… including you for not telling the cops what you’d noticed. And you know what CID are like. They’ll pin the blame on the easiest target. You.” She placed the memory stick on the worktop, alongside his computer mouse, then took out her purse. “I’ll tell you summat else, Todd. I’m not asking you to do this just from the goodness of your heart, or even to save your worthless neck. I’m happy to pay you for it.” She pulled out a twenty. “A bit of beer money.”

  The implicit, if genial threat, coupled to the money, swayed Todd, and ten minutes later, Denise climbed into her car for the twenty-mile journey home, carrying a copy of the relevant recordings, which she spent most of the evening and night watching.

  The first thing she learned was that of the two trucks parked in Back Britannia Parade, one bore a Turkish registration. The other was registered to a company in the southwest, and she promptly contacted them to see whether their driver had noticed anything that night. They promised to get back to her.

  She then turned her attention to the footage of Joe’s car arriving, stopping outside the recycling shed, the driver getting out, cutting off the old lock, putting the drum in the cupboard and putting a new lock on before driving away. She had views from both cameras (one at either end of the building) but they told her nothing. The car registration could be made out with sufficient magnification and there was no doubt that it was Joe’s car, or a more than reasonably accurate facsimile. But at neither end could the driver’s face be made out and for the thirty seconds or so that the driver was out of the car, the images were taken on such a wide angle that only the body outline could be seen. Even on the highest magnification, the resolution was so blurred that no distinguishing features were visible.

  And yet, she remained convinced that Todd Henshaw had seen something which persuaded him that the driver could be Lee, not Joe.

  While Joe spent a further disturbed night in Sanford prison, Denise spent an equally frustrating one at home, and on Friday morning, with no response from the trucking company, and no further forward on the video front, after calling at The Lazy Luncheonette to bring Joe’s friends up to date, she began the trawl of key cutters in Sanford.

  She eventually arrived back at The Lazy Luncheonette just after three in the afternoon, and she had little to report.

  “Just one man admits he cut a key for a Ford Ka,” she told Sheila and Brenda. “Utters. He has a stall in the indoor market. He recalls cutting a key but he also recalls who had it cut… Joe.”

  Busy mopping the kitchen floor, Sheila clucked. “That will be when the spare key disappeared a few weeks ago. It fell off the hook on the kitchen wall into the waste bin and got thrown out with the day’s rubbish.”

  Denise feigned interest. “Does it happen often?”

  “Too often,” Brenda replied. “I’m surprised we haven’t lost more keys. And Joe was fuming over it. The new key cost him the thick end of eighty pounds.”

  “Well, the way things are going, he has a lot more to worry about than the cost of new car keys. I have to admit, I’m not hopeful. I swear this Henshaw man knows more than he’s saying, but whatever it is that persuaded him it might be Lee on that recording, has escaped me, and that, girls, is about the only chance we have of getting Joe out of jail.”

  ***

  If Denise had her concerns, she was not alone. Across town, Dockerty sat with Tara Ipson and could not believe what he had just been told.

  “You’re sure?” Concern was etched into the superintendent’s brow.

  Seated the other side of the desk, Tara nodded slowly, her long, black hair flowing in front of her eyes when her head bowed, and back again when she raised it.

  Her pale skin, which contrasted sharply with her jet black hair, sallow eyes and cheeks, reminded Dockerty of Morticia Addams. He found it almost impossible to guess her age, but he estimated it as anywhere between thirty and forty. Bits of her, particularly the strong legs exhibited beneath the hem of a tight mini-dress, made her look younger, but the crow’s feet around her eyes, partly hidden by thick-framed, designer glasses, would convince anyone that she was older.

  Whatever her age, she had been with the police service a long time, and she was a top-drawer, forensic accountant. No one could hide a penny but what she would find it. When she said the drum tally at The Lazy Luncheonette did not match up with the records, then Dockerty really had no business asking if she was sure.

  “There should be twenty-three drums on site according to my calculations based on the accounts,” she said. “Yet your boys counted twenty-four: twenty-one empty and three full. Murray’s accounts, for obvious reasons, don’t differentiate between full and empty, but his stock records do, and there are itemised invoices for purchases and receipts for empties when the recycling man has collected the drums. So it was a case of cross-checking, drums purchased with drums recycled, and the balance came to twenty-three. He has one empty drum too many.”

  Her voice was husky and seductive, and caused Dockerty to wonder about her again. Did she have a husband, a partner? Was it put on as an invitation or was it simply the result of too many cigarettes?

  He mentally shook himself out of the idle and inconsequential speculation. Unlike many of his peers and colleagues, he was happily married and had been so for over two decades, and he recognised this mental meandering as an involuntary means to taking his attention away from matters which confounded him.

  “Murray’s accounting is accurate, but it isn’t simple,” Tara went on. “In fact, it’s a bit haphazard and it took me all of yesterday to find every entry, and double check them. When I got the figures, I thought I had it wrong, so I went through it all again, and got the same answer. Then I passed it over to Quincy… Er, you know my junior?”

  “I’ve met him,” Dockerty said, with the vague notion that the man’s full name was something bizarre like Quincy Enright.

  “I told him nothing and I didn’t give him my results. I just told him what to look for. He spent most of this afternoon going through them, and he got the same result as me. Twenty-three accounted for, twenty-four on site.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what it means, Ray.”

  Dockerty was in the same position. “What the hell is he playing at?” he murmured loud enough for Tara to hear.

  “Sorry, but psychology, I don’t do. I prefer numbers. They can be made to lie, but by and large, they tell the truth, and if you know how to work with them, the lies are soon uncovered.”

  Dockerty smiled thinly. “You make me wish I was an accountant.”

  “It’s not as boring as people are led to believe. My job certainly isn’t.” After a momentary pause while she appeared to be gathering her thoughts, she went on, “Y’see, boss, if someone tries to hide a
few thou, I’ll find it. He’ll make a mistake somewhere in his cross-referencing, and I’ll dig it out eventually. But in this case, your suspect hasn’t tried to hide any money. If anything, he’s sold himself short. He gets three pounds per drum from the recycler, so he’s dropped three pounds on his bookkeeping. Trivial sum, sure, and I guess his intention was never to cook the books, but why has he done it?”

  Dockerty reached for the phone. “That, Tara, is what I intend to find out.” He jabbed at the number pad and waited for the connection to be made. “Gemma? It’s Ray. Get Sergeant Barrett and bring him along to my office, will you… Yes, right now.” He dropped the phone and smiled his gratitude at his visitor. “Thanks, Tara. You’ve opened up a can of worms, I think, and I’m not sure where it takes us, but your efforts are appreciated.”

  She stood up and smoothed down her dress. “No problem, boss. Can I go back to Leeds now?” Without waiting for an answer, she collected her belongings and walked out as Gemma and Ike Barrett arrived.

  The superintendent greeted them both with a grunt and waved at the chairs opposite.

  “We have a problem.” He declared. “The drum count doesn’t tally.”

  From her face, Dockerty could tell that Gemma’s heart sank.

  “He’s missing one?” she asked.

  “Just the opposite,” Dockerty replied. “There is one drum too many at The Lazy Luncheonette.”

  Gemma’s face lit up, and Barrett’s screwed into a frown.

  “He’s joshing us, sir. Leading us by the nose. Confusing the issue. I mean—”

  Dockerty held up his hand. “All in good time, Ike. Let me spell it out to you first.”

  He passed the next ten minutes detailing the things Tara had pointed out to him. When he had finished, he turned not to Barrett, but Gemma as the senior officer. “Your opinion?”

  Her unequivocal answer came quickly. “Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to set Joe up, sir, and they’ve made the kind of mistake we need to put us on the right track.”

  She was going to say more, but Dockerty had already turned his attention to Barrett. “Ike?”

  “It’s still Murray, for me, sir. He’s a clever man. We know that. All he’s trying to do is muddy the issue.”

  “To what end?” Gemma asked.

  Barrett was as definite as Gemma had been. “At some stage, we let him go and we continue to look elsewhere. He’s got away with it.”

  Gemma addressed the superintendent. “I disagree, sir. If Joe really had done it, he would have had more sense than to go back to his café that night to hide a drum. The car we caught on tape is a ringer.”

  “I was tempted to think the same, Gemma,” Dockerty agreed, “but you’re overlooking one thing. How did the traces of oil and a drum get into his car? Joe, himself, admitted he never carries old drums in the car.”

  Both subordinates tried to speak at once, but Dockerty talked over them.

  “As matters stand, we have more evidence pointing at Joe than pointing any other way. Most of it is circumstantial, and this drum business is puzzling. But I’m not going to ask for his release. Not while we’re in such a state. You, Gemma, are in favour of Joe’s innocence, you, Ike, are against. That’s the perfect position for what I want done.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t let this get personal between the two of you. I know you by reputation, Gemma, and you are an excellent officer. Ike, I’ve worked with you longer than I care to remember, and you, too, are one of the best. So I don’t want you falling out over a professional disagreement. Instead, I want you both to go down to The Lazy Luncheonette, and count the drums.”

  “Surely that’s a job for a couple of uniformed constables?” Barrett protested.

  “Normally, I would say yes, but we’re involved in a murder hunt, Ike, and we need to get this right. There is the slightest chance that someone miscounted the drums on Tuesday. I doubt it, but I want you both there to check and double check the numbers. The reason I’m sending you two is because of your opposition on Joe’s guilt. You’re not going to add a non-existent drum to back up your uncle, Gemma, and you, Ike, are not going to miss one to incriminate him. You go out there, you count the drums individually. Not together. You compare the results only when you’re finished. Understood?”

  While agreeing, Gemma pointed out, “Sir, the café’s shut, isn’t it?”

  “It was cleared to reopen yesterday morning. If it’s still closed, you know Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump, don’t you? You can ring them and have them let you in.” Satisfied that Gemma was all right with the plan, Dockerty laid extra stress on his next words. “You report on this matter to me and no one else. Not the station canteen, not the Sanford Gazette, and not Don Oughton. Me. Right? Get on with it.”

  ***

  At The Lazy Luncheonette, Sheila, Brenda and Denise were enjoying a cup of tea and on the point of calling it a day when the two detectives arrived.

  “Good afternoon, Gemma, Sergeant Barrett,” Sheila greeted them. Without sounding too bitter, there was no warmth or welcome in her voice. “What can we do for you?”

  “Come to hammer a few more nails in Joe’s palms?” Brenda demanded. She was bitter and made no effort to hide it.

  Gemma addressed Sheila. “We need to count the cooking oil drums, Mrs Riley.”

  Denise laughed harshly. “Oh boy, Ray Dockerty really has you at the core of this investigation, doesn’t he? What’s wrong? Didn’t he trust uniformed to be able to count that far?”

  Barrett sneered openly. “Ex-Detective Sergeant Latham. Dare I ask what you’re doing here? Still chasing your bonus from the insurance company?”

  “I’m doing your job, Barrett. Trying to prove who killed Gerard Vaughan. And yes, it is for my bonus from North Shires. Because I reckon whoever murdered him set that fire.”

  Barrett shrugged. “Joe Murray.”

  “Not Joe Murray,” Denise retorted. “Not that you silly sods can see that. But I will, and when I do, I’ll wipe that smirk off your face.” Her insistent stare took in both officers. “I have a whisper that the man seen climbing out of that car on Monday night was not Joe. If that’s so, then you have no case against him.”

  “What whisper?” Barrett demanded.

  “You’ll get to know when I follow it up.”

  “Ms Latham,” Gemma said, “your history as a CID officer obliges me to be polite, but it also obliges you to understand the severity of withholding evidence. If you know something, then you must tell us, and if you don’t, I’ll take you in under caution.”

  Denise held out her hands, wrists together. “It’s fair cop, guv. Slap the bracelets on me.” She laughed. “You’ll make a good inspector, maybe even a chief inspector or superintendent one day, Gemma, but don’t try it with an old hand. I don’t know anything. I’ve had a hint, that’s all. And I’ll be looking into it tonight and maybe over the weekend. If you take me in, you’ll only get the same answer, so don’t waste your time or mine. Just go count your drums.”

  Gemma sniffed haughtily. “We’ll need the key for the outside storage shed, Mrs Riley.”

  “You know where it hangs, Gemma,” Sheila replied, pointing to the kitchen. “May I ask why you need to count the drums again?”

  “We’re not allowed to tell you,” Barrett replied, and followed Gemma into the kitchen area and then out through the rear door.

  Brenda looked to Denise. “Can you guess why they need to recount them?”

  “Something’s wrong,” Denise replied. “It’s the only explanation. But quite how it ties in with everything, I don’t know.”

  They whiled away the next five or ten minutes with chatter centred on forthcoming summer holidays, and when the two detectives returned it was obvious from the dark looks that they had found something wrong, and had probably disagreed over it.

  “Well don’t keep us in suspenders,” Denise said. “What’s wrong.”

  Barrett began, “I told you—”

&n
bsp; Gemma cut him off. “There’s one empty drum too many.”

  The sergeant glowered at her. “Superintendent Dockerty’s orders were that it was not to be discussed with anyone other than him.”

  “I don’t care about Superintendent Dockerty’s orders,” Gemma snapped, “and just remember who you’re speaking to, Sergeant.” She turned to the three women. “When Joe called at that shed on Monday night, he put the empty drum in there and it threw his figures out.”

  “It wasn’t Joe,” Brenda insisted.

  “I appreciate your loyalty, Mrs Jump, but the fact remains—”

  Sheila, who had bitten her tongue since the two offices arrived, cut Gemma off and finally let rip. “The fact remains, Gemma, that you are coming across holes in your theories and you’re trying to make them fit what you see are the facts, rather than admitting that you have it wrong. As far as I’m concerned, that is disgraceful.”

  “Please, Mrs Riley,” Barrett begged. “We’re trying to get to the truth.”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked your bare backside,” Sheila ranted.

  Brenda took up the cause. “Joe may be the grumpiest man in Sanford. He may even be the most tight-fisted man in Sanford, but he is not a fool. His records are never so much as one penny out. I know. I worked in banking for years, and I’ve checked his books often enough. If Joe really had carried out this crime, he would not be stupid enough to make that kind of mistake. You have the wrong man. What will it take for you to admit it?”

  Gemma shrugged. “Proof.”

  ***

  “I am sick of the way my orders are ignored,” Dockerty yelled when Gemma and Barrett faced him half an hour later. “I told you not to discuss the matter with anyone, and that included the two women at The Lazy Luncheonette.”